The Beta Set
by Isabeau1
Summary: A collection of drabbles based on the 1 sentence challange
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This series of drabbles is the result of playing with the second set of prompts from 1sentenceorder on livejournal. These are obviously not one sentence each and I may not get through all fifty of them, but I thought I would post what I have.

I should also note that I haven't actually seen all the episodes of White Collar, so there may be some inaccuracies. Wishes and Worry are purely speculative.

* * *

**1. Walking**

"I'm through talking to you," Neal turned to walk away.

Peter snatched his arm and yanked him towards the car. "You're not walking."

"What the hell do you care?" Neal jerked his arm free with an ease that caught Peter just a little off guard.

Just like everything else Neal did, it bespoke of skill rather than brute force.

"Last time I let you walk home you were almost shot," Peter shifted to block the most obvious escape route. "Get in the car."

For a moment it looked as if Neal was going to make a bid for escape anyway, then he jerked open the passenger's side door.

"Sometimes I hate you," Neal said, sounding an awful lot like he meant it.

Peter wondered if this was how fathers sometimes felt, because really, having Neal hate him for a while didn't bother him that much as long as he was safe.

* * *

**2. Waltz**

"You don't know how to dance?" Neal folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair, looking at Peter speculatively, almost as if he thought the Fed was trying to con him.

Which would have been quite an accomplishment on Peter's part; not that he would have ever admitted that.

"Why in the world would I?" Peter grumbled.

"You better call Elizabeth then," Neal didn't exactly smile, but it was only too obvious he was laughing at his partner. "You're not stepping on my toes while you learn."

* * *

**3. Wishes**

"Neal…" Peter approached him cautiously, not sure what to say.

Just because he had been adamant about being right didn't mean he had particularly wanted to be.

"I wish…" he started.

"If wishes were fishes we'd all dine like kings," Neal murmured so quietly Peter almost didn't hear him.

"What?" Peter could only stare at the back of the young man's head in confusion.

"Nothing," Neal waved airily without turning away from his view of the night skyline. "It doesn't matter anyway."

It was possibly the least true thing Neal had ever said to Peter, and it drove him to lean on the balcony railing beside him, so close their shoulders almost touched.

"You always lie to yourself like that?" Peter asked with a gentleness he usually reserved for things he expected to brake but had to handle anyway.

"Sometimes the difference between lying and wishing is negligible."

Peter found the truth more bitter than he expected and wrapped an arm around Neal's shoulders in hopes of softening the blow for both of them.

* * *

**4. Wonder**

Neal felt eyes on the back of his head and looked up from picking burs out of Satchamo's coat.

"What?" he asked curiously, returning Elizabeth's gaze.

Wordlessly she held up a catering brochure from the pile on the table in front of her. Neal wrinkled his nose and shook his head in response.

"Save yourself the trouble and just throw that one away," he suggested.

"Thanks," she tossed it in her trash pile and got back to work.

On the couch, Peter grumbled about a missed shot on the tv, but didn't comment on the fact that Neal was very much not helping him with the case that was spread out all over the coffee table and couch. He loved his dog, but he hated untangling his coat. If Neal was going to do it, he wasn't going to complain.

Neal returned to his self appointed task, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his slacks and shirt were wrinkling from sitting on the floor, never mind the dog hair.

Their house had always been a home, no matter how busy the two of them got. Having Neal drift in and out of it at random times of the day and night hadn't changed that. It was starting to feel strange to Elizabeth though, if she didn't have Neal in her living room at least three times a week.

Elizabeth sometimes wondered, with a little more foreboding every time the thought crossed her mind, if their house would still feel like a home after the tracker was cut and there were no more excuses for Neal to sit on her living room floor.

* * *

**5. Worry**

There was only two months left until the tracker came off, no sign of Kate, and a track record of doing stupid things at the last minute. But Peter wasn't worried about Neal running out early.

All indications to the contrary, Neal was exceptionally patient. He always saw his objectives through to the end. It was just sometimes hard to tell what his objectives were. With the overwhelming evidence that Kate was not being held by anyone, Neal's immediate objective in his work-release deal had shifted from finding her, to honoring an agreement made with someone he respected. That didn't mean he had given up on Kate though.

Peter didn't worry about finding Neal's tracker suddenly abandoned, or having to hunt the brat down again and lock him away for good. Instead, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the moment the piece of high tech jewelry came off, Neal would be gone, and Peter would be left to spend the rest of his life trying to convince himself and El that the kid they had taken into their family almost by accident was out there somewhere and alright.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Please read the note in the first chapter if you would like to know where these drabbles came from. I know a very young granddaughter hasn't shown up for June, but the granddaughter in Vital Signs was young enough to make a younger one plausible. _War_, on the other hand, may not be very plausible, but the idea that some of the skills Neal has shown are consistent with military training was intriguing to me. _Weddings_ is just speculative and takes place well after the series ends.

* * *

**6. Whimsy**

"The grass is purple, `cause that's my favorite color."

Peter nudged the door open and peered cautiously into Neal's suite. That voice was entirely too young to belong either to the con-man or the usual company he brought home.

"Pink is my second favorite, so that's why the clouds are pink."

June's six year old granddaughter, Becca, Peter thought she was called, was sitting on Neal's lap at the kitchen table, fingers stained every color of the rainbow, proudly explaining her latest masterpiece.

Neal listened with rapt attention, apparently hanging on every word. That ability to listen, to make a person feel as if every syllable they mumbled was of the upmost importance to him, was one of the things that made Neal so good at what he did.

"Pink clouds remind me of cotton candy on Coney Island," Neal said, putting his skills to the admirable end of making a six year old feel like the center of someone's world.

"Cotton candy is my third favorite, after caramel apples and peanut butter cups," Becca tipped her head back and smiled at him. "I've never been to Coney Island."

"Maybe your grandma June can take you sometime," nothing changed in Neal's expression or posture, no indication of any regret that cotton candy was so far out of his radius.

There was a very pronounced streak of bright blue on Neal's cheek and green and yellow crusted under his nails. Peter glanced down at the case file in his hands, an art theft that had ended in murder, and decided he would take June up on the offer of lunch.

He closed the door as quietly as he had opened it and headed back down the stairs.

***

Two weeks later, Peter walked through his front door to find a painting hanging on a previously empty wall. Coney Island at sunset, the sky blazing with pink clouds and the fairgrounds taking on a purple hue in the fading light. He was a little surprised when he recognized the signature in the lower corner. He had spent three years learning the way Neal copied other people's work, but he had rarely seen any originals.

Elizabeth stepped out of the kitchen, a pleased smile on her face. "When I told Neal I hadn't found a painting that fit that space, I wasn't expecting him to make one. He said it's called Becca's World."

Peter snorted softly and kissed his wife on the cheek, then fished his phone out of his pocket to see if their artist wanted to come over for dinner.

* * *

**7. Waste/wasteland**

It was a waste of resources, but Neal had convinced prison guards to let him walk out of a maxim security jail, so really it wasn't much of a stretch.

Peter was hardly fooled, but he went along with it, nervously at first, but he wanted results and he was reasonably certain he had things under control, even if it was for totally different reasons than the one presented.

It was a truce of sorts, a secret shared between the two of them. The 3500 dollar accessory Neal never went anywhere without was a waste of time and energy, but it made them both feel more secure, and created the illusion of control on both sides of the equation.

But they both knew the reality of it was, five minutes was four and a half minutes longer than Neal Caffery needed to disappear forever.

* * *

**8. Whiskey and rum**

Neal drank wine with names it took years of study just to pronounce. His ties were always silk and never polyester. His shoes cost more than some of Peter's suits.

Which was why Peter knew things were not going well when he opened the door to Neal's rooms and was overwhelmed by the smell of whiskey.

Peter didn't care much for whiskey, so he poured himself a shot of rum instead, and sat down next to the young man, raised his shot glass to him in greeting, then waited him out.

* * *

**9. War**

Neal pretended his dislike of guns was purely intellectual, and it was an easy con to run, because it was true that he had always felt they lacked any sense of class or finesse.

He dreamed of gunfire though, and the dark skinned faces of children who played soldier with live rounds and found a soldier's end when the game was done. He dreamed of games he ended to protect the people who protected him, and sometimes when he starts awake, empty stares burnt forever behind his eyes, he resents them for finding a soldier's end when he was left behind.

* * *

**10. Weddings**

"I'm kidnapping you," Elizabeth announced, hooking her arm through his and pulling him towards the door.

"At least you're prettier than my last kidnapper," Neal shrugged, offering no resistance, though he cast a quick glance in the direction of Peter's office.

Peter waved him away absently, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, open file in his hand. Neal was really only a consultant these days, and he didn't have to ask, but the instinct remained.

"Why am I being kidnapped?" he asked.

"I have to go to a wedding," Elizabeth sighed in exasperation.

"Work or pleasure?" Neal opened the door for her and let her through ahead of him.

"Neither," she grumbled.

Neal found a disgruntled Elizabeth supremely cute, in a purely platonic, married to his closest friend, kind of way. He offered her his arm again.

"You're coming as my decoy," Elizabeth explained. "to distract all the people who think that just because they meet me as a fellow guest I'll plan their wedding for free."

"I can be distracting," Neal flashed the smile that had made people unlock safes for him without a second thought.

Elizabeth was suitably distracted, although not by Neal's smile. She wondered if Neal had purposely smile at just the right time to cause the blonde with too much glitter on her lips and a dog that resembled a pompom to trip over the uneven pavement.

Probably.

"Thank you Neal," Elizabeth nudged his shoulder with her own and smiled back. "I'm sorry for the hassle."

"I don't mind," Neal reassured her, his smile shifting to the one he only gave to people he didn't con. "but really Elizabeth, how many more sisters do you have?"


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Same as the last two chapters.

* * *

**11. Birthday**

"Really, the whole box set?" Mozzie tore the wrapping paper off excitedly. "Can we watch them now?"

"That's why I gave them to you," Neal grinned, pouring himself a third glass of wine.

They were truly terrible movies, but Mozzie was happy and that was the important part. Anyway, by the fourth glass of wine, the dubbing was funny enough to keep Neal entertained for the rest of the night.

* * *

**12. Blessing **

He was breathing. That was enough.

**

* * *

****13. Bias**

"That's not even worth stealing," Neal huffed, hands stuck in his pockets.

Peter glanced at him, more amused than he probably should have been given who he was talking to.

"It's art, isn't it?" Peter quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Barely," Neal grumbled. "They have three Tintorettos in the next wing."

"We're working," Peter pointed out with a roll of his eyes.

This was what he got for agreeing to be partners with an art snob.

**

* * *

****14. Burning**

Neal struck a match and watched it burn all the way down to his fingers before blowing it out. The second and the third were the same. He burnt himself on the forth one and didn't noticed. He worked his way through the whole box until he finally reached the last one.

He took a slow uneven breath before striking it. The flame was halfway down the stick before he snapped up the photo in his other hand and lit the corner on fire. He watched the photo burn until there was nothing left but ash.

The next day no amount of questioning could pry from Neal how he had burnt his fingers.

**

* * *

****15. Breathing**

"Caffery, you have a bed, and if that fails, I have it on good authority the couch isn't half bad," Peter looked down at the ex-con laying in the middle of his living room floor with his face buried in the dog's fur, mostly sure he was asleep.

Peter nudged him gently with his foot.

"My bed doesn't breath," Neal grumbled, his voice muffled against Satchamo. "and you won't let Satch on the couch."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Becca is back. See the note on the second chapter for justification of her existence.

* * *

**16. Breaking**

The sudden sound of dozens of dishes shattering had Peter and Neal on their feet in an instant and running to the kitchen.

"El, are you alright?" Peter almost ran into the room in his stocking feet, but Neal caught the back of his shirt and tugged on it, bringing him up short.

"Broken glass," he warned when Peter glared at him.

Elizabeth stood next to the counter, surrounded by broken dishes, her hand still on the open cupboard door. She was either going to laugh or cry, it was hard to tell.

"I'm fine," Elizabeth assured them.

"What happened?" Peter asked as Neal slipped away to grab their shoes.

"I've made a decision," she was definitely laughing. "we should go dish shopping."

* * *

**17. Belief**

June straightened Neal's lapel, absently smoothing down the jacket before reaching up to adjust his hat to its usual angle.

Neal smiled and caught her hands, holding them still. "I'll be fine."

"I know," she returned his smile, her eyes warm. "I'll see you when you get home."

* * *

**18. Balloon**

"Up you go Becca," Neal scooped the child up to sit on his shoulders.

She laughed and managed to lose both her hat and Neal's. Peter bent down and picked them up, handing Becca's back to her and plopping Neal's on his head. Neal grinned at him from under the brim.

"There's the first float," Elizabeth pointed, threading her arm through Peter's and leaning against his side.

Becca squealed with delight and kicked her heels. June, standing on Neal's other side, beamed up at her granddaughter. A giant frog floated passed them, and Becca managed to knock his hat off again. This time Peter put it on Becca's head, on top of the knit hat that was keeping her ears warm. In Becca's laughter and June's warmth and Peter and Elizabeth's nearness, Neal caught a glimpse of a life for himself that stretched out beyond the time limit on his tracker.

He liked what he saw.

* * *

**19. Balcony**

"Peter?" Elizabeth leaned back in her husband's arms, enjoying having his undivided attention.

"Hmm," Peter hummed against the back of her neck.

"Where do you send Neal off to when we commandeer his balcony?" she laced her fingers overtop of Peter's.

"It's not his balcony," Peter pointed out mildly, brushing his wife's hair out of the way so he could kiss the nap of her neck.

Elizabeth tipped her head back to kiss him, "he does usually live here though."

"I think he's babysitting," Peter said casually.

Elizabeth caught the laughter in her husband's eyes and couldn't help but smile, "which granddaughter?"

"Who said anything about granddaughters?" Peter snorted softly.

"So he'll be sound asleep on our couch with Satch when we get home," Elizabeth grinned.

"If we're really lucky, he'll even have done the dishes," Peter pulled her in tighter.

"I married a genius," Elizabeth settled into the best seat in the house and enjoyed the view.

* * *

**20. Bane**

Neal woke with a start to the sound of crashing furniture and barking. With a moan he rolled over and pulled his pillow over his head.

Something shattered in the living area and there was a demonic sounding yowl.

Neal tossed his pillow against the wall in annoyance and kicked his blankets off, trudging into the living area. One of the side tables was overturned and a lamp was laying on the ground in pieces. The yowling and barking was coming from the kitchenette now.

Stepping carefully over the shards of broken lamp in his bare feet, he headed towards the kitchen. The cat perched on the top of the fridge, back arched and hissing, had not been his idea. Cindy had thought it was cute and talked her grandmother into keeping it at the house, since her own apartment didn't allow pets. Felix the dog had not been at all happy about it.

Neal reached up and plucked the cat off the top of the fridge by the scruff of its neck, ignoring it's yowling. Felix yelped at his heels, following him towards the door of the suite, as if Neal was suddenly going to feed the cat to him.

It was tempting, but he was sure the cat would have given Felix indigestion. Neal managed to toss the cat out of the door without letting the dog by. Even after the cat was gone, the little dog continued to yelp and jump at the door.

"I understand," Neal grabbed the dog's collar and dragged it away from the door, forcing it to sit until it was quiet again. "Cat's are evil, but it's three in the morning."

Felix licked Neal's fingers in apology, and Neal let go of his collar.

When Neal had agreed to help June take care of her dog (and wash the jag, and watch her granddaughter), it had never occurred to him that that would include saving the dog from a demon cat.

Maybe it was time to renegotiate his lease.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **_Question_ takes place post-series, and just for reference, Paris is about six hours ahead of New York, so morning in New York is afternoon in Paris.

* * *

**21. Quiet**

"Doesn't it make you nervous when he's being quiet?" Jones asked, amusement in his smile.

Peter glanced out the windows of his office, looking at where Neal was bent over his desk, apparently studiously at work on the stack of financials they had given him on a company they were investigating. Peter would have been fooled, except the folder was sitting open to the last page already and Neal only chewed his lip like that when he was drawing.

Neal was, surprisingly enough, not the sort of person to surround himself with needless noise. When he talked, he had a purpose. He just seemed loud because he had a seemingly endless supply of purposes.

"Na," Peter shook his head and signed off on the forms Jones had handed him. "as long as he's quiet he's still just plotting, and there's a chance of thwarting him. By the time he starts talking we've usually already got a problem."

He watched Jones walk back across the office, pausing to thump Neal on the shoulder with the folder he was carrying. He watched Neal turn to grin at him, left hand subtly covering what he had been working on, surprisingly self-conscious of things he could call his own. Then he pointed to the folder on his desk and started talking, apparently oblivious to Jones' raised eyebrow.

Peter grinned and got back to work.

* * *

**22. Quirks**

Neal took his coffee black.

When people moved items he was working with, he put them back where they had been. Unobtrusively and without a fuss, but they always found their way back to their original spot.

He listened to jazz in the morning when he was getting dressed. Unless the night had been long. Then it was Mozart or Bach, something soothing for the dawn.

If he was focused on a task, no amount of noise could distract him. If he wasn't focused then every sound was like an alarm, and there was no hope of getting work done.

Neal never lied to children, though he always tried to cushion the blows. He liked dogs more than people, because they were always honest. The irony of his reasoning did not escape him.

Peter had spent three years studying all of Neal's idiosyncrasies and habits. He had been reasonably sure he knew them all. But there was nothing in his notes about dogs or coffee or morning routines. He found himself surprised at what he had missed, and unexpectedly pleased to be able to fill in the gaps.

* * *

**23. Question**

Neal picked up the phone on the second ring. He didn't recognize the number, but he was hoping it wasn't business this early in the morning.

"Caffery," he answered, wandering towards the kitchen to start the coffee.

"Hey, it's Peter."

Neal grinned and didn't try to stifle his yawn.

"Hi," he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder so he had both hands free to make coffee. "How's Paris?"

"Beautiful," Peter answered without hesitation. "You should have come."

"Maybe next time," Neal stepped over Satchamo to get the French press. "or Italy. `Lizbeth said she wanted to go."

Neal would have liked to have gone with them, but he had had two art showings and a huge consultation with the Cloisters Museum. Anyway, who else would watch Satchamo while Peter and Elizabeth were gone.

"I might hold you to that," Peter answered. "I have a question for you."

Neal snorted softly and measured coffee grounds into the press. He had figured as much when he had heard Peter on the other end of the line.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Where's a good place to go for dinner?"

Neal shook his head in amusement and reached down to scratch Satchamo's ears. "You want someplace that Elizabeth will like or some place that wont offend your cheapskate sensibilities?"

"I am not cheap," Peter countered.

"Is that Neal?" Elizabeth's voice floated over the line. "I have a question for him."

"Maybe I should have gone with them," Neal told the dog as the phone changed hands.

Satchamo cocked his head to the side, possibly in agreement.

"Hi sweetheart, how are you, how did the showings go?" Elizabeth's voice came over the line, warm and happy sounding.

"I'm almost awake," Neal poured hot water into the press and left it to steep. "The shows went really well. I think I sold two of the big paintings. We're still negotiating final price, but it looks good."

"That's great!" he could see her smile in his head. "So, we were at the Saint Ouen flea market, and I saw these beautiful 16th century wood block prints, and Peter thinks they're fake. They're supposedly Fontainebleau prints. Any advice on how to tell?"

"They're probably not Fontainebeau," Neal yawned again. "How much do they want for them?"

Elizabeth quoted him a ridiculously high price, and if Neal hadn't been shopping at Saint Ouen before, he would have been surprised. As it was, his first thought was to wonder how many tourists the guy had scammed, and if he was actually any good at it, or if he just relied on pretending not to speak English so he appeared incapable of tricking them.

"I wouldn't pay that," Neal poured himself a cup of coffee. "Find out what prints they are, and I'll make you copies of them."

"You're going to make Peter very happy," Elizabeth laughed. "He wants the phone back. Have a good day honey."

"You too `Lizbeth, enjoy Paris," Neal wandered out onto the balcony, coffee in hand and Satchamo on his heels.

"You just saved me a fortune, didn't you?" Peter said as he took the phone back from his wife.

"Probably," Neal plopped down in a chair in the sun. "Try Orenoc Jazz. You'll probably need reservations."

"Is that the Elizabeth answer or the cheapskate answer?" Peter asked cautiously.

"You'll just have to be surprised," Neal sighed contently as he sipped his coffee.

"Lucky me," Peter had to be rolling his eyes with that tone of voice. "Thanks Neal. We'll see you in a week. Try to stay out of trouble."

"Will do," Neal reassured him before hanging up.

Neal closed his eyes and leaned back in the sun, dropping his hand over the side of his chair so Satchamo could lick his fingers.

It was going to be a good day.

* * *

**24. Quarrel**

Peter stocked into the conference room, a stack of files in hand. Jones took one look at the scowl on his face and announced he was going to go get coffee for everyone. Cruz excused herself to pull a file from the archives. Only Neal appeared oblivious to Peter's bad mood, head bent over the open file in front of him, scribbling columns of numbers in the margins.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked without looking up.

"Quiet," Peter warned, dropping the stack of files at Neal's elbow. "Fix those."

Neal raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know what I mean," Peter glared.

Neal, looking far too amused for his own good, flipped open the top file.

Two hours later Peter walked into his office to find a note on his desk in Neal's neat handwriting: _Elizabeth says if you go to the black-tie with her you can skip the next wedding._

* * *

**25. Quitting**

Neal had been scarce for the last few days, but Peter was hardly surprised to find him sprawled on his couch when he got home. Peter kicked off his shoes and walked over to the couch, swatting at Neal's bare feet. Neal obliged by pulling his feet up to give Peter a place to sit.

Peter sat with a sigh and looked at Neal quietly.

"That Rembrandt that was stolen last week," Neal peered at Peter from under the arm he had flung over his eyes. "Mozzie told me about it. It wasn't me."

"I know," Peter patted his shin affectionately. "You kicked that habit awhile ago."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: **Spoilers for the final in Jewel (#29)!** I wrote Jump, Jester, and Jousting before the final, but I don't think there's anything in them that contradicts the final.

* * *

**26. Jump **

"If you ever do that again," Peter grabbed Neal by the collar of his jacket, shaking him a little. "I really will put you back in jail."

"But Peter…" Neal protested, hands held up in placation.

"I don't want to hear it," Peter let him go. "I'd rather have you in jail than splattered all over the pavement."

"So now is not a good time to tell you that I've jumped from much higher places?" Neal asked innocently.

* * *

**27. Jester**

I had been a bad day in a hundred little ways, from the caterer bringing the wrong silverware to the bride breaking her heel ten minutes before the ceremony. By the time Elizabeth got home, all she wanted was a hot bath, a bottle of good wine, and her bed, preferably occupied by her husband.

What she got was an empty house and a hungry dog. Needless to say, she was somewhat disgruntled.

She knew the hours Peter's work required. She had known it before she had ever married him, and she usually didn't hold that against him, but tonight she decided it was high time she did.

Her husband was less than cooperative in this end. His phone went straight to voice mail. She supposed she should have taken the hint, but it was not a hint taking sort of night, so she called his partner instead.

"Elizabeth?" Neal was clearly surprised to have her on the line.

"Is Peter there?" she asked, not caring if she sounded angry.

"Here as in in the building somewhere, but I don't know where," Neal sounded suspiciously oblivious to her ire. "He's got me working in archives, trying to match MOs on jewelry heists."

Elizabeth was about to tell him she didn't care, because for all that Neal could do an outstanding impression of a kicked puppy, he actually had remarkably thick skin. He tended to only take things personally when they actually were.

Neal though had other ideas, and he cut her off before she could open her mouth. "It's downright criminal that some of these guys haven't been caught. There was one guy who tried to get the manager to open the vault using a banana."

"A banana?" Elizabeth asked, despite herself.

"Yeah," Neal confirmed.

"And he got away?" Elizabeth asked doubtfully.

"Yeah, and this other guy…."

Initially, Elizabeth tried to resisted distraction. She wanted to yell at her husband, not be entertained by a conman and a stack of files that bore testament to human idiocy. Neal was very good at what he did though, and almost before she knew it, she was laughing with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear while she filled Satchamo's bowl.

"Hey, Peter's here," Neal broke off mid-sentence. "I'll tell him to pick up a bottle of Riesling on his way home. Bye Elizabeth."

Neal hung up before she could answer, leaving her trying to figure out at just what point in the conversation she had mentioned wanting wine.

By the time Peter got home, looking slightly bewildered by the wine bottle in his hand, Elizabeth had taken a nice hot bath and put on her favorite pajamas and was ready to have a glass of wine with her husband.

The day might have been a loss, but the night, at least, was looking up.

* * *

**28. Jousting**

In all honesty, the game had been getting boring.

Neal had pulled his first major job at the age of 24. It had been thrilling and new and most importantly, successful on all counts. By the forth job, it had started to become routine. By the sixth he was thinking of retiring. Then he decided to diversify his job prospects. It was then that he moved from forging legal papers and stealing antiquities to forging paintings.

Art was inherently rewarding for him. Coupled with the thrill of getting away with it, he had been able to entertain himself for quite a while.

By the time Peter had been assigned his case, he had been getting bored again. It had almost become routine. He had pushed for more intricate heist, had forged higher profile paintings, but even that wasn't enough.

But suddenly he had had an FBI agent shadowing his every step. It was like graduating from playing hide and seek on the play ground to champion level chess, and for the first time, he had had to work to win. For the first time, he couldn't be sure that he was going to get away with it.

He was ecstatic, and he expressed his gratitude in pizza delivered to car windows, fine bottles of wine left at the door of shabby hotel rooms, and birthday cards. Every job was a thrill, because it meant facing off against the first person who had ever really been able to keep up with him.

He was caught off guard by the discovery that the game was just as challenging and thrilling when it was played from the other side, and he suspected that as long as he was playing on Peter's team, he would never have to worry about getting bored again.

* * *

**29. Jewel**

Neal had never been much of a jewel thief. He had stolen a few here and there, but he had quickly become bored with stealing rocks. He had remained prone to pieces of jewelry from antiquity, something about the history behind them and the people who had worn them, but the rocks themselves, not so much.

He had known jewel thieves though. Not the low class, money grubbing ones, but the high class ones, the ones who stole for the art, or in this case, the sparkle. The look on their faces when they saw a perfect cut was probably about the same look he got on his face when he saw an original Di Vinci.

It was probably about the same look that Peter currently had on his face, and he was most definitely not looking at any rock.

Elizabeth had finally managed to talk Peter into coming to one of her charity events, and Peter, not surprisingly, was running late. Actually, he probably wouldn't have made it at all, except that Elizabeth had invited Neal, and Neal had made Peter bring his tux with him to work. Otherwise, there would have been no hope.

Because they were late, Peter was only now getting his first look at Elizabeth as she came down the marble stairway in her formal attire. And if the expression on his face was any indication, it was quite a look.

That was _the_ look, the one Neal had seen on the faces of jewel thieves everywhere, the look of someone who appreciated both value and beauty.

Elizabeth, who had been looking just a little annoyed, spotted Peter, saw the way he was looking at her, and smiled brighter than the hope diamond. Peter was already making his way through the crowd with a speed that he usually reserved for chasing criminals.

Neal set his shoulder against a marble pillar at the edge of the room, took a sip of wine, and was almost amused.

It wasn't just that Peter thought Elizabeth was beautiful, or smart, or supportive, or a hundred other things worth commending. She was all those things, but when Peter looked at her that wasn't what he saw. What he saw was the center of his world, the one thing he could not live without, and at moments like this, it seemed as if she was not only the center of his world, but his whole world.

It bothered Neal that he couldn't remember Kate ever looking at him like that. It bothered him more that he would never have the chance to find out if it had been there and he had just missed it. He knew she hadn't missed his looks.

Elizabeth caught his eye from across the room and smiled. Certainly not the same smile she had given Peter, but it was warm and friendly in the way Elizabeth usually was. Neal raised his glass to her and mouthed 'you're welcome.'

Elizabeth laughed softly and tucked herself back against her husband's side, leaving Neal feeling alone in the crowd.

* * *

**30. Just**

"But it just…" Neal started.

"I don't want to hear it," Peter huffed.

"But I just…"

"Neal," Peter warned.

"It's just that…"

"Neal stop talking," Peter glared, cutting off Neal's next protest with a hand over his mouth, "just this once."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: **Spoilers for the final in **_**Sorrow**_** (#32).** In defense of _Stupidity_ (that doesn't sound odd at all) for all that Neal doesn't like guns, he's never been so panicked or overwhelmed when a gun was pulled on him that he couldn't think straight. He's always (keeping in mind I haven't seen all the episodes) been calm enough to deal with the situation, and he knows how to handle guns, so I'm guessing he's had some significant exposure to firearms in the past. _One for My Baby _has been sung by all sorts talented people, like Sammy Davis Jr and Dean Martin, and _Blue Skies _was made famous by the likes of Frank Sinatra. I'll get links to them up on my livejournal, since FF isn't great for links. _Share_ isn't mis-numbered. I swapped out #35 with a prompt later on that I had already written.

* * *

**31. Smirk**

Peter walked into the conference room, took one look at Neal, and scowled.

"I hate that look."

"What?" Neal asked innocently, ignoring the stares he was suddenly getting from Cruz and Jones.

"You're up to something," Peter glared.

"Yeah," Neal agreed, "solving your case for you."

"No," Peter disagreed, "you're up to something else."

"Has anyone ever told you you're paranoid?" Neal grinned.

"Cautious," Peter corrected. "Whatever it is, don't."

"Whatever you say Peter," Neal's voice was placating, but there was a particular glint in his eyes.

"Why do I even bother?" Peter grumbled, snatching a file from in front of Neal to read.

Cruz rolled her eyes and went back to work. Jones hid his snickers behind a file folder. Neal bent his head back over columns of numbers, looking far too amused.

Peter looked between the three of them and wondered, with equal parts annoyance and amusement, just what he had done to deserve them.

* * *

**32. Sorrow**

Neal blinked awake to the middle of the night quiet and a cold nose against his hand. He was thrown for a moment until Satchamo's wet tongue licked his fingers. He had fallen asleep on Peter's couch again. Someone had slipped a pillow under his head and tucked a blanket around him, and he was pretty sure he hadn't even made it through the first two pages of the file he was supposed to be reading.

With a disgruntled sign, he tossed back the blanket and sat up, feeling stiff and groggy. He had been oscillating back and forth for a while now, swinging from weeks of insomnia to weeks of barely being able to keep his eyes open. He had always been somewhat prone to insomnia, but the pervasive exhaustion was both new and unwelcome. Not that insomnia was ever particularly welcome.

Excessive tiredness, Mozzie had informed him, was a sign of depression. Neal had already known that. It was one of many random facts that he happened to have picked up along the way. For all that Neal was one of the more impulsive people in the world, he generally tried not to cater to his moods too much. Part of being a conman was having control of his emotions. To that end, Neal tried to ignore the oppressive tiredness, without much success.

Which only made him angry on top of everything else, although at the moment he was too tired to be angry, so he settled for scratching Satchamo behind the ears and pushing himself off the couch to find where Peter had put the files so he could at least catch up with where Peter was on the case.

Peter had left the stack on the dining room table, and Neal picked up the top file and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee. Peter and Elizabeth were generally sound sleepers. As long as they knew someone else was suppose to be in the house, they wouldn't wake up.

While the coffee brewed, Neal leaned against the counter and flipped open the case file. On the first page was a post it note in Peter's all but unreadable handwriting, telling Neal to go back to sleep. Neal was amused, but ignored the note.

By the fourth page the coffee was done and Neal must have lost his place and had to go back and reread the previous sentences a half dozen times, which was frustrating to say the least. Neal was used to a single quick read through getting him everything he needed to know. He only liked rereading if it was Shakespeare or Dickens or someone else of high literary caliber. Peter was talented in many ways, but his chicken scratch notes did not qualify as literature.

The fifth page had another post it on it, telling Neal to leave the coffee until morning and go back to sleep. Neal thought, with a yawn, that he might just be getting predictable in his old age, and ignored that note as well, determined to be able to carry on an intelligent conversation about the case in the morning.

He couldn't hold onto the threads that held the case together though, even with coffee. He kept losing names and places, times and heists. He had to go back over pages two or three times, and even then the words refused to stay.

Neal was smart. He knew he was smart. Which was what made it so amazingly stupid that he couldn't keep track of a couple poorly executed heists by a group of people whose names were the only things less original than their tactics, and he used the term 'tactic' lightly.

If he couldn't hold onto the pieces of such a simple plot, how was he suppose to string together the pieces of the convoluted and tangled one that was strung up all around him, how was he supposed to straighten out the mess he had gotten not only himself, but Peter and Elizabeth into?

On the tenth page Peter had scribbled a timeline in the margins, and Neal couldn't remember anything about the heists listed on it, not even what was stolen.

If he couldn't do this, how could he make things right again?

With a surge of frustration Neal threw the file across the kitchen and sank down to the ground, back to the cupboards and knees drawn up. He couldn't stop the hot tears that spilled over or the shudders that caught in his chest making it hard to breathe. He was not all that surprised by the dog socks that stopped beside him, but he clung to the hope that if he just ignored them, they would go away.

There was no such luck. Peter sat on the floor beside him and rubbed patient circles on his back until he could breathe again without gasping. Neal rubbed angrily at the tears that wouldn't stop and refused to look at Peter.

"It'll get better," Peter said softly, his hand coming to rest on Neal's shoulder and squeezing gently.

Neal looked at him then, wanting to yell, wanting to scream and shout and tell him he didn't know what he was talking about, but he couldn't seem to find his voice, and Peter was so very Peter, practical and solid and strong enough for Neal to break against if that's what he needed.

"I know it doesn't seem that way, but it will," Peter's arm circled his shoulders and pulled him against the warmth of his side.

Neal's anger fell away, replaced by the unbearable exhaustion that never seemed to really fade. He turned into Peter's shoulder, into what was real and alive and safe.

"We'll get through this," Peter murmured, wrapping him in both arms. "Just don't give up on us, and we'll get through it."

Neal nodded, too tired to disagree. His last thought as he drifted off to sleep was that he was going to owe Peter an apology in the morning when they were both stiff and aching from a night spent on the kitchen floor.

* * *

**33. Stupidity**

"Are you stupid?" Peter demanded.

"Um…" Neal looked away from the medic who was bandaging his arm. "No. That's why you keep me around, remember?"

"When someone points a gun at you, you give them what they want," Peter hissed.

The medic eyed the angry agent uneasily, and Neal gave him a reassuring smile.

"Well, he asked for something I wasn't willing to give," Neal would have shrugged, but that would have upset the medic, and he was already looking less than thrilled with them. "Anyway, if I had given him what he wanted, he wouldn't have had any reason not to kill me."

Peter scowled, clearly not at all placated by the obvious line of reasoning. "You knew he was carrying. You never should have gone with him in the first place."

"But if we lost the painting, we wouldn't have been able to hold Barith," Neal pointed out.

"Then we would have gotten him some other time," Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.

"While I'm glad you feel so optimistic, this guy has been eluding you for how long now?" Neal flinched as the medic pulled the bandage tight.

"It's still not worth you getting killed over," Peter growled in frustration.

"Do I look dead to you?" Neal grinned and tried to sound reassuring rather than tired, annoyed, and in pain.

The bullet had only grazed his arm, but a bullet wound was a bullet wound and it hurt. It wasn't the worst pain he had ever been in by a long shot, it wasn't even the first time he had been shot, but there was still something exhausting about having someone point a gun at you and then pull the trigger.

Peter wasn't really angry… well Peter probably was angry, but mostly he was worried, and Neal appreciated that, but he was finding trying to reassure him on top of being shot just a little exhausting.

Maybe if he acted like it was his first time being shot, Peter would ease off a little. It was a rather problematic solution as he wasn't sure how the average person reacted to being shot the first time. In all honesty, he hadn't been paying that much attention to his own reaction the first time he had been shot, and even if he had, he had hardly qualified as the average man on the street by that point.

"You're an idiot," Peter said, "whatever you're thinking, stop." He turned to the medic, "is he ready to go?"

"Yeah," the medic nodded. "We can load him up and head out."

"Good," Peter nodded. "I'm riding with him. Let me tell Jones we're leaving."

Peter turned away and waved Jones over, and Neal gave the medic a sympathetic smile. Despite the fact that he loathed hospitals, he had a certain fondness for medics.

"Sometimes he forgets the difference between a question and a statement," Neal accepted the man's offered hand up, doing his best to sound apologetic on Peter's behalf.

His injury wasn't that serious, but he still needed stitches, so he would be going to the hospital whether he liked it or not.

"This is not your first time being shot," the medic said, finally looking more amused than annoyed.

"No," Neal admitted, letting himself be helped into the back of the ambulance. "But it's Peter's first, so we'll just have to be patient.

The medic seemed to find that unexpectedly funny and snorted with laughter. Peter spent the duration of the trip to the hospital scowling. The medic spent the trip trying not to look at Peter, lest he lose composure. Neal spent the trip thoroughly amused by both of them, at least until he fell asleep.

* * *

**34. Serenade**

It was well past midnight when June got home. She said goodnight to her driver and made sure to lock the door behind her. Her staff had gone home long ago, and there was really no way to tell if or when Neal would be home. She assumed he wasn't home as he had turned down her invitation to the charity event because he was working.

She wished he had come. He was an exceptionally pleasant escort to these sorts of events. He was charming and clever and everything her usual company at these events was not. And she had to admit, she never tired of the stir it caused when she walked into a black tie event with a handsome young thing like Neal on her arm.

At least Neal was amused by the gossip they stirred up and not offended. The only time she had ever seen Neal completely lose his composure in public was when someone had suggested, in what they must have thought was a subtle manner, that he was her illegitimate son. She had found herself abruptly pulled onto the dance floor for the sole purpose of giving Neal an excuse to hide his face against her shoulder while he fell into hysterics. In between the gasps of laughter, she had heard something about improbable genetics and recessive genes.

As if she would ever deny having a son like Neal.

June stopped at the bottom of the stairs to pull off her heels, and was surprised to hear the faint sound of a piano. She left her wrap hanging over the banister and headed towards the music room, shoes still dangling from one hand.

She had to admit, she was surprised to find Neal sitting at the piano. She had been expecting Frank, her cook, who was rather fond of the baby grand, or Jenny, one of her maids, who was a music student and liked to play when no one was around.

He was playing _One for my Baby_, which was not such a surprise, and while he seemed comfortable with the music, he was putting enough concentration into playing to imply he didn't play often.

June leaned against the doorframe listening for a moment. It was had been a long time since she had heard that song and she was pleasantly surprised to find it more sweet than bitter.

"I didn't know you played Neal," she said when he hesitated over a note, either uncertain of the next chord or thinking of stopping.

Neal turned to look at her, just a little startled, then he smiled the smile that made everyone at the parties jealous.

"June, I didn't think you'd be home for a while."

"There was not enough alcohol in Lower Manhattan to keep me there another hour," June dropped her shoes near the door and came to sit on the bench beside him, back to the piano.

"That bad, huh?" Neal picked up where he had left off in the song, sounding both amused and sympathetic.

"I missed my escort," June stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed her ankles.

"I would have rather been there, but I had to keep Peter from being shot," Neal sighed.

"That bad, hm?" June echoed his question back to him.

"Yeah," he said shortly.

June nodded and leaned her shoulder against his, listening for a few more bars.

"Byron used to sing that to me," she told him wistfully.

"It's not exactly a romantic song," Neal pointed out mildly.

"It's always romantic when a man sings to you," June smiled.

"I don't sing," Neal managed to almost sound apologetic.

"I have it on good authority that you do," June tried not to sound too amused.

"Vicious lies," Neal tried to cover his slight blush with a smile.

June laughed softly and let her head rest against him, "Do you know _Blue Skies_?"

Neal nodded and shifted into the new song easily. June listened for a few bars, tapping her feet in time. Neal's forte was art, but Byron's had been music, and she missed having a house full of melody.

"_Blue skies, smilin' at me_," she started singing. "_Nothin' but blue skies do I see_."

Neal matched the tempo of the music to her singing, and for a little while she lost herself in the memory of Sunday afternoons spent on the piano bench beside Byron.

But Neal was not as tall as Byron, and he didn't play as well. June didn't mind that too terribly much. The differences were soothing, a reminder of just how pleasant her present was.

"_Blue days, all of them gone. Nothin' but blue skies from now on_."

* * *

**39. Share**

It was two in the morning and the three agents (and Caffery) were still sitting around the conference table, stacks of files and piles of paper scattered everywhere. Caffery had claimed one end of the table for himself and every time someone else's stack got too close to what he had designated as his area, he would push it away. He did it absently, without ever looking up from the files he was going through, not even stopping in the notes he was scribbling on his notepad.

Jones debated whether or not he should switch places with Cruz. She was sitting closest to Caffery, and every time he pushed one of her files away she looked like she was going to hit him. The girl needed to relax, or at least learn how to respect personal boundaries.

Burke walked up behind Caffery and leaned over his shoulder, reading his notes while he was writing them. He reached for Caffery's coffee cup as he read and took a drink. Jones expected a token gripe from the man who couldn't share his file space, but Neal didn't even notice.

Cruz scowled.

Apparently, personal boundaries were subjective.


End file.
